


Of Course They Did

by swooning



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-21 20:37:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3704271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swooning/pseuds/swooning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A New Caprica groundbreaking-party after-the-sandbags smutfest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Course They Did

There was no pollution on New Caprica, and no city lights, nothing to impede one’s view of the night sky as one lay idling on the warm, broad chest of a friend. Nestled.  _Embraced._ She couldn’t get enough. The lack of responsibility, the lack of a title, the freedom to lie curled into somebody’s side in a semi-public place. She might never be anonymous again, but neither was she living under a microscope any more. The difference between Bill’s manner with her when she was President, and the easy way he had been flirting with her for the past several hours… she had long suspected he had wanted to, and he had started to on any number of occasions, of course. Even she had had those moments, even “back then.” But decorum had always prevailed, and nothing had ever crossed that subtle threshold. She had always wondered if he might slip, one day, or if  _she_  might, and one or both of them would do or say something too overt to ignore. But no…   
  
But now… it was simultaneously as if they had never been apart, and like they were first getting to know one another. Although, Laura speculated, that rarified feeling might well be the effect of the seductively pleasant herb they had been smoking since early in the afternoon. Flirting and smoking narcotics, two things Bill Adama would have never done with the President of the Twelve Colonies.   
  
Laura suddenly thought of Bill handing the current President a joint, and none-too-surreptitiously checking out Baltar’s butt the same way he’d been checking out her cleavage all day… her giggle burst out unabridged, and ended in a less than ladylike snort that would have startled Bill from his reverie had he not been so mellow. Instead, he took it in stride, just looked at her with mild, stoned curiosity.   
  
“Care to enlighten me?”  
  
“Oh, just… Baltar. He’s such an  _ass_.” A new wave of giggling overtook her at her own choice of words.   
  
“Yeah.” He looked at her a minute longer, enchanted by the combination of her mirth and the feel of her shaking gently against his body as she laughed. But as he was unable to see her cleavage from this vantage point, he let his eyes slip back to the stars, tracing the new constellations that New Caprica offered, wondering who would name them all. There was a long line of bright blue stars, four in a near-perfect row, with something like a triangle of three clustered at one end… the Arrow of Apollo? He could be the first to name that one, at least.  
  
She finally settled back against him, limp with laughter, wiping her eyes in the starlight, clutching weakly at the flap of his jacket. “Bill. It’s getting cold.”  
  
“Do you want my jacket?”  
  
Laura thought for a moment, decided to give up stargazing and shoot for the moon. “Not really.” She lifted her head a little, shifted her angle until she was resting her chin on her hand, on his chest, feeling his heart beat through the warm wool. Eye to eye, almost literally. “You wanna go to my tent and fool around?”  
  
It wasn’t a total surprise, of course, but it still sliced right through his mellow in the best possible way. He looked at her closely, there on his chest, and suddenly felt all the suppressed interest of their entire acquaintanceship surge upward in wild speculation. None of that showed on his face, of course. “You serious?”  
  
She looked like she was giving it some thought; then she shrugged in a fatalistic way, and nodded, deadpan. “Everybody else is doing it.”   
  
He liked the new Laura even more than the new crop of interesting herbs on this planet. Because she was almost exactly like the old Laura, except she didn’t outrank him, she flirted shamelessly with him, and she seemed to have developed the most astonishing sense of humor since becoming unemployed… not to mention the sudden predilection for wearing low-cut tops and “frak-me” red. His new favorite color. But to be polite, he supposed he should at least attempt to offer her an out.   
  
“Um… don’t you think we should maybe…  _preview_  that? Here, I mean, before we go and commit ourselves to something that might not mmph-”  
  
She had cut to the chase, latching onto his mouth with a kiss that was a good deal more than just a preview.   
  
When she finally let him loose, he needed a moment to regroup. Not because he doubted her sincerity, or his willingness to oblige her, but because of the sudden rush of blood away from his already somewhat addled brain.   
  
“O…kay,” he finally managed, and promptly pulled her back down on top of him, taking charge of the kiss this time. He parted her lips with his own, dipped his tongue inside her mouth demandingly. And held her firmly in place against him as he did so, not that she was interested in escape. For a long, delicious moment, they both forgot where and who they were, got lost in this new activity, until they were hopelessly compromised. They went farther than intended, there on the sandbags, too close to the public view. Once the first flush of kissing had exhausted itself, they moved on, hands and mouths, bodies melting together just a little. They were too old for this sort of foreplay to mean anything but rapidly impending sex, and they both acted on that knowledge with abandon. Her face was buried in his neck, but one might still hear her tiny, needy whimpers as he explored the delicate contours of her ear with his tongue, and the delectable curves of her rear with his hands. When she flexed her hips against him, parted her thighs just enough to feel his growing hardness against her pelvis, he groaned, and the noise startled her out of her lust-induced reverie.   
  
Panting slightly, she raised her head and looked at him, a bit unfocused. “Oops,” she said unrepentantly, and tried to stand up. Hormones and being a wee bit stoned worked against her; she was noticeably wobbly, and Bill felt a resulting rush of male pride. Sitting up on his sandbag, shaky himself, he pulled her back against him by the hips and nestled his face against her skirt, slipping a hand underneath the hem and boldly – brazenly – sliding his fingers straight up her thigh to cup her mound through the silky fabric of her panties. Rubbed there, with his thumb, and then found the same spot with his mouth. Even through the layers of fabric, the heat of his breath made her gasp and clutch at his head with trembling fingers.  _Yes, that’s what we’re planning to do, all right._  There was really no going back from  _that_  sort of move. ‘Overt’ didn’t begin to cover it.  
  
“Bill, we… need to go to my tent.  _Now,_ ” she reminded him, in a husky whisper. Realizing, with no little anticipation, that she had clearly created a monster. Or was at least responsible for unleashing one. But she would much rather finish unleashing him in her tent.   
  
He didn’t use many words, didn’t need them, as his smoldering eyes and clenched jaw spoke illicit volumes when he stood and grasped her hand.   
  
“Where is it?”  
  
And they were off, through the growing maze of canvas and rope that was trying to be a city, through the smells and sounds of tens of thousands attempting to live like civilized creatures. Through the night, with the brilliant stars providing more light than the hastily rigged fixtures that illuminated the camp in occasional pools of lurid visibility. She was almost dragging him by the hand, skirting the areas where people still mingled in celebration, drawing him along by back ways to the flap of her tent. He was keeping up easily, not even disturbed by the surreal feeling that flavored his perception of the evening’s unexpected turn.  
  
Then inside the tent, just barely inside, before they were on each other again, kissing ferociously and tearing off clothing as though it were on fire and needed to be put out. Fire was there, but not in their clothes, rather in hands and eyes, and in hoarse voices that asked and told, “How do you unbutton this?” and “Gods, I’ve wanted you since…” and “Like that?” and “Yes.” And “ _Yes… oh, gods…_ ”  
  
When Bill stood from removing a shoe, lifted a hand to Laura’s chin and stole a kiss, time and place skidded sideways for a moment. She was transported to the circumstance of their first kiss, nearly forgotten now through all the subsequent business, but suddenly there she was again. Dying. But loved, unexpectedly. A tender, spontaneous gesture from a man whom she had never known to be tender, never imagined capable of spontaneity. And then their kiss deepened, his hand dropped to cradle her breast, and time clicked back into place again, the present superimposing itself on the past and then passing it by. His thumb felt rough, grazing her nipple. But his mouth, which chased his hand down almost instantly, was slippery-soft, and hot, overwhelming. That one sensation was a  _world_  of sensation, it opened the door to some repository of need she hadn’t known existed.   
  
She arched her back and gave herself over to the thrill that was careening through her body, the rhythm dictated by Bill’s mouth and fingers. An ache announced itself loudly between her legs, a throbbing so intense it was distinctly painful. She could feel her pulse there, feel the blood inflaming her clitoris. Laura had had a few moments like that, since her recovery, a few half-waking dreams that brought little relief and a strange disquiet the following day.  _Had she cried out in her sleep, had anyone heard her?_  A schoolgirl self-consciousness, revisited upon her by necessity in the cramped quarters of Colonial One.   
  
Now, though, Laura felt no such constraint. She leaned in, moaning happily and not quietly as Bill lapped and sucked at her breasts, as he learned each curve of her waist, hips, ass, with his surprisingly skillful hands. Who would hear her making noise, and if they did, why would they ever care? And  _gods_ , she hadn’t realized how badly she’d needed this until it was already happening.   
  
Bill was whispering something, murmuring against her flesh.  
  
“What?” Was that her own voice? Deepened, slurred… drunk on Bill.   
  
“I said, ‘What are we doing, here?’”  
  
She opened her eyes, confused and dismayed. “Well… I thought… I mean. Weren’t we about to…?”   
  
It was Bill’s turn to surface, blinking in bemusement as he sorted out the miscommunication. The loss of his warmth against the wet tips of Laura’s breasts was a shock, a sobering chill of exposure. She almost started to cover herself with her hands, until he spoke and the chill dispersed.   
  
“Huh? What are we doing? Are we going to try the cot, or throw some blankets on the floor, or –“  
  
“Oh! Oh. Um. Floor. Sorry, I just –“  
  
“You  _are_  planning to build a bed for that cabin, aren’t you?” He had abandoned her in the middle of the tent, and as he spoke he busily stripped the linens and other soft furnishings from her cot to fashion a respectable nest on the ground beside it. His movements were purposeful, efficient; it looked like it might be quite comfortable. It also looked too tidy for passion, more like a junior ranger’s survival-training project, although that didn’t surprise her. He had almost certainly been a junior ranger at some point.  _Throw some blankets, indeed._  
  
“Unless somebody else volunteers to build it for me.” She had recovered some of her equilibrium, now. Enough to resume flirting, in any case.  
  
Bill stared up hungrily at her from the pallet, where he hunkered with his elbows on his knees. An odd position from which to look commanding, particularly when one was wearing only trousers and fresh lovebites, but he managed it effortlessly.   
  
“Take your skirt off,” he ordered, more through habit than design. Laura wasn’t usually keen on that tone from him; at the moment, however, her hands were shaking with her effort to comply swiftly enough. “Everything,” he commanded when she hesitated, hands poised at her hips as the skirt slipped heavily to the ground, lapping at her ankles like a puddle of scarlet, leaving her in only a pair of panties.   
  
“You too, then.” She was not unaccustomed to giving orders, herself; they just didn’t always  _sound_  like orders.   
  
In this case, it didn’t matter whether she ordered him or not – Bill wasn’t paying attention to anything but the picture she presented. His eyes scanned from her ankles upward, lingering finally in the region of her thighs, and she felt his gaze as palpably as a touch. A sudden moment of clarity reminded her how long it had been since a man looked at her that way openly. Although she knew Bill had eyed her in a clandestine way many times before this, it was not the same, not  _at all_  the same as having him on the floor before her nearly-naked body, staring at her as though he could burn her image on his brain. Waiting for her to take all her clothes off so that – she sincerely hoped – he could get on with the more important business of touching everything he was currently looking at so intently.   
  
“Everything off,” he repeated sternly, and Laura complied with a smirk. Who was she to argue, anyway? She wanted this, wanted it so badly she could hardly remain upright as she slid out of her remaining garment, stepped away from the pile of discarded clothes and toward Bill. And then she was pulled off balance for a different reason; he tugged her closer by the hips as he had earlier, out by the sandbags. Repeated his earlier move, brushing his thumb against her clit, but this time pulling the skin there taut with the upward movement of his hand before burying his face in her reddish curls. He took a deep breath while she was still trying to catch hers, and snaked his tongue between her thighs, dipping inside her once without preamble. His finger followed, a slow, twisting slide as deep as he could reach, and as he did so, another brush of his thumb, and then a lingering open-mouthed kiss planted squarely on her exposed clit. He suckled the tiny, swollen nub gently as he frakked her with his finger, not nearly hard enough or long enough to satisfy, even as close to breaking as she already was. The sensation was almost too much, it was making her lightheaded; she thought she might actually pass out before she had a chance to come, and the thought drew a small, anxious cry from her. After only a few more moments, Bill stood, licking a tiny bit of moisture from his finger thoughtfully before slipping the wet digit between her parted lips.   
  
She had never minded her own taste, and was turned on immensely by the strange intimacy of this action, his utter directness in making his desires transparent to her. Useful, too, as they had only this one night for now, before he had to return to the ship. Laura licked the tangy excretions from his finger, and then gave them back in a kiss that seemed to last for hours. It was probably only seconds, however; she was too eager to feel his mouth elsewhere again – was it just wishful thinking, or did he seem to have an astonishing and unsuspected talent with his tongue? – and he was too eager to have her in any way he could before the night was over.   
  
Bill’s uniform trousers were still on, Laura realized, and she set herself to the work of removing them, kicking them out of the way, trying not to give in and go limp in his arms as he cupped her rear and pulled her back against him for another kiss. He still wore his boxer shorts, and even the thin, soft old cotton felt too rough, too impeding between them, to Laura. She almost tore those, getting them off, and Bill chuckled smugly, said, “Easy,” in a slightly patronizing way, as she crouched by his feet to pull the boxers free. He had gotten her worked up enough to literally rip his pants off, was his clear implication, and she hated him just a tiny fraction for implying it because there was a sense in which it was true. He was hard, his erection brushed her hair as she yanked the underwear free, and he put a hinting hand at the base, stroked himself once from root to tip and back again, clearly expecting some reciprocation in kind.   
  
Smiling in a way that was beautiful, but not pretty at all, she pulled away from him then, stood up with the shorts in her hand, and considered him thoughtfully. Should she allow him to get away with implying she was any needier, aching any harder for this, than he was? Or should she, perhaps, remind him just how much he  _was_  aching for this? She was in a wicked mood, had been all day, perhaps the influence of wearing that particular shade of red again, or maybe just the sweet high she had been on since shortly after lunch. It didn’t really matter. Wicked was wicked. Horny was also horny, but she could spare the control to drive him crazy first. It wasn’t as though he wouldn’t ultimately enjoy it, anyway. He most certainly would, as would she…  
  
Still smiling in that slightly unsettling way, she slid her hands through the waistband of the shorts she still held and began stroking herself through the thin fabric, teasing at her breasts first, the cloth hiding exactly what she was doing but revealing just enough to tantalize. A hint of peaked nipple, a raising and lowering of full flesh from behind a curtain of blue-and-white pinstriped ( _not military issue, Bill? Interesting…_ ) cotton. His eyes had gone a bit glazed, his breathing picked up noticeably, before Laura stopped watching him and let her head fall back, closed her eyes, began concentrating only on the sensations. Lower, her hands crept lower in their swathe of concealing material, and he was unable to see precisely what those hands were up to, although their systematic motion, slow circles in counterpoint, made it maddeningly obvious once they fell below her waist.   
  
When it was so nearly too much, so close it was dangerous, she opened her eyes and met his with a daring raised eyebrow. Bill’s jaw was clenched, likewise his fists, and his eyes dropped immediately to her hands when she moved them to let the pants fall to the ground. And then flickered past her hands for the briefest span of time to the flesh they still touched, before returning to her face. He couldn’t trust himself to do much more than take her hand, tug her down with him to sit and then lie with him on the mat of blankets. Face to face, toe to toe, then he rolled her beneath him and used his knees to spread her legs, as he used his tongue to part her lips.   
  
She was surprised when he reached for her again instead of attempting to enter her immediately; his finger slipped inside her again, to her delight, and then a second, then a third. It was almost painful, but so encompassing was her need that she thrust her hips up with ardor, opening herself further. When she reached down, finally enclosing his erection with her hand, Laura realized with a hint of trepidation that he probably wanted her opener still; although not long, he was very thick, enough so that her fingers couldn’t quite encircle the girth when he was this hard.   
  
Probably explained the smugness, the condescending “Easy.” Probably explained quite a bit, actually. Men always think that sort of thing has a meaning, means something about the man. But it doesn’t. A man with a big dick doesn’t really have an ace in the hole. But he  _thinks_  he does, and that in itself can make a difference. Give him confidence, an arrogance even, he has no actual reason to feel.   
  
She kissed him fervently, hooked his legs with her own, and angled her hips as she guided him closer; finally giving in, he thrust, breaching her in a series of slow, steady increments that were delicious in their own right. He was, in truth, slightly too large for comfort, in part because of her own long abstinence. But the contact, the sensation of being filled, was bliss beyond reckoning, and Laura wrapped herself around Bill and pulled him deeper, closer still, until she could scarcely breathe. She almost didn’t want him to move, because if he did she thought she might come instantly, and she wanted to savor their contact longer than that. But of course he did move, at last, and the meager world of the tent began to swirl and recede, leaving her in a haze of skin, lips and sweat, fists clenched in hair, salt tears and a tang of blood on the tongue. Fingers pinched at a nipple sharply as hips picked up tempo, and everything in her universe was Bill, pounding into her again and again,  _so good_ , all the other nerve endings in her body in thrall to the cluster between her legs. And when she came, arching up against him, she swallowed her cry by habit, and cursed herself silently for the wasted opportunity. But Bill’s rhythm never slowed, and she was brought back to herself and rapidly out once again, and she cried out his name when the second orgasm took her, just as he peaked inside her, cried it aloud and didn’t care who heard.   
  
  


* * * * *

  
  
Even in her haze of self-recrimination and false post-wedding cheer, Kara could not help but notice the Admiral did not appear to have returned to his ship to spend the night. He wore a distinctly rumpled, slept-in expression that spoke even louder than the unbuttoned uniform jacket and dusty dress shoes. She nudged her newly wedded spouse in the side - easy to do, as they were entwined together by the arms as they strolled aimlessly through the encampment - and nodded toward the tent flap from which the Admiral was just emerging. Kara would come to know that tent well over the coming months, but this early morning on New Caprica, early in the day and in the settlement, she did not know who its occupant might be… until she saw her emerge, the former president, still wearing the red and nearly-nude beige of the night before. And looking rumpled. Slept-in.   
  
Anders looked on, not nearly as invested as Kara in the question of where the Admiral might have spent the night, but silently congratulating the old man on his taste. Morning light looked good on Laura Roslin, in her red, highlighting the tousled auburn tresses that slid down around her shoulders as she placed a casual hand on Adama’s arm to steady herself, leaned to the side and adjusted her shoe with a smile and a comment the newlyweds couldn’t hear. Whatever she said, it made the Admiral smirk. They were both smirking, looking too pleased with themselves, for whatever reason.  
  
“Oh my gods. He’s… just been in there to invite her to breakfast, right?” Kara sounded as though she might even be convincing herself. “Or maybe… they were both wasted on that local stuff last night, I saw them lying around on some sandbags and giggling. I’m sure they were both passed out by an hour after nightfall. They probably just woke up, right?”  
  
Sam looked at Kara fondly, still under a few illusions about his new wife. He thought her so cute in this delusion, like a kid who couldn’t believe her parents had ever done  _that_ , no matter what they said in health class…   
  
“Sam?”  
  
He smiled at his bride, tucked her under his lean arm, and turned them down the street in the opposite direction, away from the tent and the other couple. “Of course they did, honey. Of course they did.”


End file.
